


New World

by kayliemalinza



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: Character Death Fix, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-15
Updated: 2006-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James wakes up to find somebody blaspheming in his kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New World

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Port Royal, some weeks after the end of DMC

James has woken up to feel the headboard and to assure himself he is at home, with no curséd men or beating hearts nearby but himself and his own. The night spins out like an oiled top, a silent whir across the world's hearth, and then something blasphemes in the kitchen. In a moment James is creeping down the stairs, fastening his breeches with one hand and holding out his sword with the other.

The intruder's smell is stronger than his language; James wipes his streaming eyes and holds the hem of his nightshirt to his face, frowning when he realizes it leaves his belly bare. No matter; acceptable sacrifices and all that. It's not as if he's modest. Sword high, he steps briskly into the kitchen and calls out,

"Drop your weapons and explain your business!" The moon is an obscene white shaft across the table, nudging its rounded tip at the icebox and the man bent over rummaging inside. The man stands up and James' throat seals shut.

"I haven't eaten properly in some weeks," says the man, a turkey leg in hand, "so if you'll just allow me a few moments to stave my hunger, I will be perfectly willing to fight you to the death or march off to prison or polish your boots, or—" a careless wave of a hand; grease-glistened scraps of turkey flutter gently— "whatever it is you want me to do." Jack Sparrow sticks the drumstick in his mouth and piles more meats, puddings, and cheeses into his arms, shutting the icebox with a bump of his hip and swaying to the table. His clothes are darkly stained, his hat is ripped and shredded on the side and he smells absolutely foul but he is alive despite Elizabeth's expressionless pronouncement.

"Inconceivable," says James.

Jack swallows a large mouthful of bread pudding and shakes his head. "Perfectly sensible, actually. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, eh? Honestly." He snatches a roll of bread from the bowl in the middle of the table and bites off a hunk. "Any cook'll tell you that."

James stares at the pirate, at the white mash of pulpy bread behind his teeth and the glint of saliva on his lips. How can the man eat while smelling so horribly? His own stomach roils, prickling in the almost-cool night air. "Rather," James says distractedly, forgetting that his comment had referred to Jack's very presence and not his promise of future cooperation, "the most efficient way to a man's heart is through the chest with a sword."

Jack rips bits of turkey from the bone and shoves them into his mouth with three fingers and a thumb, lips stretching white in the moonlight, his dark eyes glittering a sweep from hilt to tip of James' sword. "You would run me through wi' that?" he softly says, and licks the tip of every finger.

"Indeed," says James.

"I'm tremblin' at the verra thought," says Jack, and winks. James stares at him, hot lines sparking from the small of his back to the sides of his neck. It is simply disgusting the way Jack is carving thin slices of cheese and carefully laying them across the bread pudding. James cannot look away from the culinary disaster.

"I find that I tremble at your stench," he says, finally.

Jack shrugs and liberally sprinkles the cheese and pudding with paprika. "Insult me all you like, Mister Norrington," he says, leaning back to rifle through the James' drawers until he finds the cutlery. "I'm simply pleased to be among the living." He grins triumphantly and fishes out a spoon—one better suited for eating soup than cheese and pudding—and dives into his concoction.

James knits his brows together. "How exactly did that come to pass, Sparrow? I heard—"

"Mm. Apparently," says Jack, shoving a horrid spoonful into his mouth and pulling the spoon out clean with a soft _pop_ , "Apparently the fastest way to a Kraken's heart is through his _mouth_ with a sword. Shall we call that an endemic difference between beasts and men?"

James knows that at some point his sword dipped down, his stance slid loose. He is not sure whether this is because Jack has turned his brain, or because James has decided that Jack is not currently dangerous, or simply because it is late and James is tired. He is still holding his nightshirt to his nose, however. Jack smells.

"I have little experience in the matter of sea creatures," he says.

Jack nods sagely. "Ah, right. You did exit the scene before the final act, didn't you? So." He devours another bite. "For the sake of maxim, shall we say that the best way to Davy Jones' heart is through _you_?"

"Through Lord Culter Beckett, rather," James says dryly.

Jack simply nods and goes for the ham, confirming James' suspicion that he already knew full well where the heart was. After all, would James be sleeping so boldly in his own bed if he had not already traded it?

Jack curls up a thin, round slice of ham, using it to scoop up the last smudges of bread pudding. "An' where would the Lord Beckett be keeping the heart, I wonder?" he says lightly.

"Even if I knew, I would not tell you," says James.

Jack uses his indignation, mock or no, to propel himself out of the chair and towards James. "You swore fealty to me as your captain!" he exclaims.

"I did not," says James, clamping his nightshirt more tightly to his face. The slight nasal timbre of his voice is unfortunate, but an acceptable drawback. "I never signed the ship's charter."

Jack halts his steps and frowns. "I could've sworn you did." He's not far off; the crew had made a big production of James' signature, but as they had commenced the celebrations before the event, he was able to feign signing and instead flourish in his best penmanship, "Less the Sparrow, More the Addled Crow."

So James can be forgiven for smirking as he says, "Check the paper all you like, Sparrow. My name will not be there."

Jack narrows his eyes. "My dear Norrington, I would love to do so but as the charter and the Black Pearl are leagues below, that is not an option at the moment." He advances further and James remembers that this man is both dangerous and dangerously attached to his ship. Jack Sparrow is a beast of simple wants, and at the moment it is easy to divine what they are.

"Do you expect Davy Jones to raise her up?" James asks, stepping back only a little bit.

Jack shrugs eloquently. "There was a fair amount of damage done, but I do believe it would be within the scope of his powers to repair. If he were so inclined." The last is said ominously and James scoffs.

"Could he bring back the Interceptor, as well?" He meant it as a joke, or as a jab to Jack's lack of skill in keeping ships, or maybe just a reminder that Jack has stolen more from him than anyone has a right to take, but Jack leans in and asks with utmost solemnity:

"Is that what you want?"

For a moment, James does want. But he answers, "No."

Jack lifts the corner of his mouth in a knowing grin and takes the last step closer. James flinches, but only on principle. Is it possible he has become used to the smell? Jack's voice is husky and beguiling. "Working for Beckett isn't any better than scrubbing pirate decks, is it? Not all the respectability in the world is worth his hooks in you." He presses into James' space, his fingers brushing the exposed pale belly. "Come on, mate. You crossed the line to treachery when you stole the heart; why not travel that path all the way?"

Jack's fingers trace a circuit over his hipbones and James realizes, with the scathing self-reflexive clarity that previously only rum and battle afforded him, that Elizabeth should've nettled _him_ about curiosity. She should've also used the word obsession. "There shall have to be conditions," says James.

Jack's teeth, both white and gold, glint silver in the moonlight. "Of course, mate. But allow me propose a preliminary condition." James nods, his skin releasing its tautness when Jack removes his touch. "You have been honourably generous with your larder," says Jack, bowing with a hand spread towards the table. "Could you also see your way to loaning me a tub of hot water and a change of clothes? In return for my utmost gratitude, and likely the relief of your sinuses." He brings his hands together as if in prayer, curling his lips into the sweet hopeful smile he likely practiced on his mother while very young.

James grins back. "Tell you what, Sparrow. I'll toss in the soap for free."


End file.
